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Authors: George Dawes Green
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almost made him forget where he was.
Tara scrambled eggs for the bastard, since that’s what he said he wanted. She cracked the shells and whisked the yolks. In her
slippers she shuffled to the fridge, and as she got out the bacon, and milk and butter, she wondered what she might poison
him with. There was a can of Drano under the sink. But he’d smell that, wouldn’t he? Also some kind of roach thing: Combat:
wasn’t that like a nerve poison? Wouldn’t it be odorless and tasteless? She conjured an image of little scorched-earth glittering
crystals. How much would it take? How much, you bastard, to tie your spine into knots? Maybe I could mask the taste with cayenne
sauce? Or maybe not. She had no idea. And anyway, even if he did eat it, would it really kill him? Maybe it’d just make him
sick and rabid and more dangerous than he already was.
And suppose he died — would that even help us? His friend Romeo would still be out there.
And Romeo would kill Nell. And after that…
But who cares about after that?
I can’t afford, she told herself, this anger. Keep my head clear. Scramble his eggs and pour the OJ and watch every move he
makes, every gesture. Find out who he is. Maybe I can figure out how to trap him. Also keep an eye on Mom, that she’s not
sneaking shots; also make sure Dad’s not boiling over where he sits. Keep everyone calm and floating on an even keel.
The sunrise shoved in through the big sliding glass door. She went and shut the blinds.
The family ate without a word. When they were done, Shaw wiped his lips carefully, cleared his throat and said, “OK. It’s
time to work on our story.”
They looked at him.
“Here’s my idea. Flat tire. I was on the road and got a flat tire. And then, Mitch, you came along and helped me out. Like
a good Samaritan, OK? We took the tire to that convenience store to fill it with air. And then on the way back you remembered
you were supposed to buy lottery tickets for your wife. And I said, hey, would you buy some for me?”
He looked for their reaction. No reaction. He sipped his coffee and pondered. Then he shook his head. “No. You’re right. It
feels phony.”
He thought some more.
“Mitch, you go to bars?”
“I don’t drink,” said Dad. “Patsy does, sometimes.”
Tara kept her gaze on Shaw. He was biting his lower lip, and his gray eyes had a stormy light to them. He said, “It might
work better if we’d met before. You ever been to Ohio?”
Dad shrugged. “Through it. Once. On my way to Chicago.”
“When was that?”
“Um —’85?”
“Way too long ago. Where else you been?”
“Well. I went to Columbus when I was in the Guard. I mean Columbus, Georgia. That was, well, like ’91?”
“Anything more recent?”
“They had me up to Greenville once for training.”
“Where’s Greenville?”
“South Carolina.”
“Training for what?”
“Service Mita copiers.”
“How long were you there?”
“Don’t know. Two months?”
“This was when?”
“Few years ago. ’03.”
“No bars?”
“No sir.”
“Well then,” Shaw pressed, “how could I have met you? Say, if I was just passing through Greenville, South Carolina?”
Dad shrugged. “I stayed at the motel when I wasn’t training. That’s about it. Except church.”
“What church?”
“Faith Renewal. Same as my church here.”
“So I might have gone to that church and met you there?”
“Might have.”
“Would you say that church is welcoming to strangers?”
“Oh, yeah. We had a crisis center there. You know, for anyone in trouble. I volunteered there. I guess I could have met you
through that —”
“What’s a crisis center?”
“Um. If you’re suicidal? Or, you know, you just need someone to talk to, you’re depressed, or if it’s drugs or whatever. Or
any kind of trouble and you need to talk?”
“You just walk in?”
“Mostly people call.”
“But you
could
just walk in?”
“You
Tara scrambled eggs for the bastard, since that’s what he said he wanted. She cracked the shells and whisked the yolks. In her
slippers she shuffled to the fridge, and as she got out the bacon, and milk and butter, she wondered what she might poison
him with. There was a can of Drano under the sink. But he’d smell that, wouldn’t he? Also some kind of roach thing: Combat:
wasn’t that like a nerve poison? Wouldn’t it be odorless and tasteless? She conjured an image of little scorched-earth glittering
crystals. How much would it take? How much, you bastard, to tie your spine into knots? Maybe I could mask the taste with cayenne
sauce? Or maybe not. She had no idea. And anyway, even if he did eat it, would it really kill him? Maybe it’d just make him
sick and rabid and more dangerous than he already was.
And suppose he died — would that even help us? His friend Romeo would still be out there.
And Romeo would kill Nell. And after that…
But who cares about after that?
I can’t afford, she told herself, this anger. Keep my head clear. Scramble his eggs and pour the OJ and watch every move he
makes, every gesture. Find out who he is. Maybe I can figure out how to trap him. Also keep an eye on Mom, that she’s not
sneaking shots; also make sure Dad’s not boiling over where he sits. Keep everyone calm and floating on an even keel.
The sunrise shoved in through the big sliding glass door. She went and shut the blinds.
The family ate without a word. When they were done, Shaw wiped his lips carefully, cleared his throat and said, “OK. It’s
time to work on our story.”
They looked at him.
“Here’s my idea. Flat tire. I was on the road and got a flat tire. And then, Mitch, you came along and helped me out. Like
a good Samaritan, OK? We took the tire to that convenience store to fill it with air. And then on the way back you remembered
you were supposed to buy lottery tickets for your wife. And I said, hey, would you buy some for me?”
He looked for their reaction. No reaction. He sipped his coffee and pondered. Then he shook his head. “No. You’re right. It
feels phony.”
He thought some more.
“Mitch, you go to bars?”
“I don’t drink,” said Dad. “Patsy does, sometimes.”
Tara kept her gaze on Shaw. He was biting his lower lip, and his gray eyes had a stormy light to them. He said, “It might
work better if we’d met before. You ever been to Ohio?”
Dad shrugged. “Through it. Once. On my way to Chicago.”
“When was that?”
“Um —’85?”
“Way too long ago. Where else you been?”
“Well. I went to Columbus when I was in the Guard. I mean Columbus, Georgia. That was, well, like ’91?”
“Anything more recent?”
“They had me up to Greenville once for training.”
“Where’s Greenville?”
“South Carolina.”
“Training for what?”
“Service Mita copiers.”
“How long were you there?”
“Don’t know. Two months?”
“This was when?”
“Few years ago. ’03.”
“No bars?”
“No sir.”
“Well then,” Shaw pressed, “how could I have met you? Say, if I was just passing through Greenville, South Carolina?”
Dad shrugged. “I stayed at the motel when I wasn’t training. That’s about it. Except church.”
“What church?”
“Faith Renewal. Same as my church here.”
“So I might have gone to that church and met you there?”
“Might have.”
“Would you say that church is welcoming to strangers?”
“Oh, yeah. We had a crisis center there. You know, for anyone in trouble. I volunteered there. I guess I could have met you
through that —”
“What’s a crisis center?”
“Um. If you’re suicidal? Or, you know, you just need someone to talk to, you’re depressed, or if it’s drugs or whatever. Or
any kind of trouble and you need to talk?”
“You just walk in?”
“Mostly people call.”
“But you
could
just walk in?”
“You
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